A Scheme Well Planned, A Job Well Done
by Cherie-24-Addict
Summary: Three months after Day 1, a turn of events is about to changes the lives of everyone at CTU - especially two perfectly compatible analysts. But, how on earth did George Mason manipulate Tony and Michelle's first meeting?  Much lighter than my usual stuff
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I always thought George Mason was a scheming little matchmaker- so I decided to have a little fluffy fun with this one. Set three months after Day 1, it chronicles the scheme behind Tony and Michelle's first meeting- and may make you appreciate the old man more than you thought you ever would.**_

Beep-beep, BEEP beep.

"Mason," I answer my phone emotionlessly, as usual.

"George, it's Tony," my Chief of Staff says, tone rushed and pissed off, as usual. "Am I missing something here?"

"Yes, I am smarter than you," I respond sarcastically. Sarcastically, of course, is for two reasons: first, because I'm always sarcastic; second, because Almeida is a freaking genius. "Look, if you're having a problem down there, you could let me know what it is."

"George, of course I'm having a problem," he hisses. "I've been balancing two jobs for the past two months because Division is too busy trying to convince Jack Bauer to get reinstated to notice that I've been forced to work my ass off. They couldn't have sent someone down to help me out?"

I chuckle to myself. "Tony, you're not going to have that problem for much longer."

"What?" he says, his eyes squinted as he looks up at my office, a glare in his eyes.

"So you're pissed when you're 'working your ass off', but you're pissed when they finally send a replacement, too?" I ask skeptically. "Something's been eating you, Tony, and whatever it is, you're doing a terrible job of dealing with it."

"Since when is it any of your business, George?" he says uncharacteristically softly as he stares at a photo on his desk. The one in which his arms are around the shoulders of a thin, petite woman who wears a big smile but whose liquid-gray eyes seem to be staring off into the distance, as if there was someone else she was chasing, something else to do.

"It became my business when a traitor was uncovered here," I respond a little harshly, "a traitor that happened to sleep with both the former director and IPM."

"Do me a favor, George," he says, "and stick to your job." I hear a click and a dial tone and groan to myself. Knowing I won't be able to catch him again, I call my secretary.

"Yes, Mr. Mason?" she says politely.

"Kara, can you tell Mr. Almeida to greet Michelle Dessler and show her where everything is when she arrives from Division?"

"When should I notify him?"

"Ms. Dessler should be here within the hour," I reply. "And do me a favor, Kara – don't tell him who he's greeting."

"Any particular reason why, sir?"

"Just my own personal amusement," I say with a smirk as I hang up. Oh, man, I think to myself. If only Babushka could see me now- her antisocial little grandson playing matchmaker with two unsuspecting thirty-year-olds. It will give me something to smile about, lift Tony out of the dumps, and, hopefully, give Michelle a nice, innocent little office relationship. I hate to admit it, but Tony can actually be a halfway decent guy when he's not scowling at everyone who walks within twenty feet of his desk. Suddenly, I realized there may be a problem. I can only hope that Tony will refrain from acting so tense when Michelle arrives. Otherwise, that IPM is going to be running for the hills.

Forty-five minutes later, I've gotten one of the more confidential analysts to help me to hack in to the security audiovisual feed of the front doors, security, and the bullpen. It's going to be completely worth it, but I can practically feel the hairs on my neck stand up on end. Considering my amazing luck, it's only a matter of time before Tony or an analyst who actually has a brain realizes what I've done.

Oh, hell. Since when have I cared what people think of me, anyway?

A gray convertible parks in the government-owned lot, and a professional-looking young woman with rich brown curls framing her face steps out and locks her car. She walks to the front doors, confident but slightly unsure. I watch with what can only be described as a kind of diabolical glee as Tony greets her.

Whoa. Okay, then. Did I ask Milo to bug Tony, or did he just do that on his own? Either way, the kid deserves a pay grade raise.

"Hi. I was told I would be receiving a visitor from Division." Tony says in a calm and soothing voice I haven't heard since before Jack Bauer and Nina Myers began a relationship.

Michelle locks eye contact with him and says, "Who are you?"

"I'm Tony Almeida," he replies, shaking her hand cordially. "I'm CTU Los Angeles's Deputy Director."

"I'm Michelle Dessler," the woman introduces herself, smiling warmly. "Division sent me over to fill the vacant spot as Internet Protocol Manager."

Oh, boy. How will he take this news? It's like a romantic comedy in the making. Maybe Kara can make me some popcorn…

To anyone who doesn't know Tony Almeida, nothing in his tone has changed. But I've known him professionally since he quit the Marines and began working here as an analyst. Here's what's probably going through his mind right now. _Damn you, George. You didn't tell me that we were getting a new IPM, much less a woman, much less a woman my age, much less a woman my age who seems to be beautiful, kind, smart, professional, and able to hold her own..._

This is probably insensitive, but the fact that Tony's head is spinning at a million miles per hour really, really amuses me. I can't believe that this is what my forms of entertainment have amounted to.

"I'm assuming by the look on your face that no one told you who I was," Michelle says, concerned.

Tony finally looks up and attempts a half-smile. (Better than nothing, I suppose.) "I apologize. You're right, Mr. Mason didn't let me know you were coming."

Of course. Blame it on me, don't you, Tony?

"It's fine," she says, brushing it off. "It's nice to meet you, Tony."

Come on, Tony. This is the moment that will define how everything else turns out. Either he'll be the insensitive ass he's been for the past year, he'll be a nicer professional, or he'll soften up a little. Which one will it be? Behind which door is Tony hiding?

He smiles at her, continuing to hold eye contact. "It's nice to meet you, too, Michelle. Now, come with me, and I'll show you where everything is and introduce you to everyone."

And the winner is behind door number three… I smile a little as I watch the feed, as Tony transforms before my eyes and becomes a much warmer person. Well, at least warmer than he's been. Changes don't happen overnight. Ah, hell. Maybe this'll actually be good for him.

A knock on my door sends me scrambling to shut off the computer feed as Almeida and Dessler walk into my office.

"Michelle, meet CTU Director George Mason. George, this is Michelle, the new IPM." He shoots me a pointed look, but it doesn't quite have the same razor-edge sharpness as it would have two hours ago. I doubt he notices the difference, but the point is, I do.

As I say hello and give well wishes to our new third-in-command, I give myself an imaginary pat on the back.

Well done, George Mason. Well done.

_**A/N: The review button is starving! Give it some love, and tell me what you think! Should I continue with this or leave it as a oneshot. Most importantly - did you like it?**_


	2. Chapter 2

A Scheme Well Planned

_A/N: This is dedicated to iWait4theRain for being an amazing friend and for writing me a birthday fic. I love you, sweetie!_

_This fic is in honor of my birthday, today, October 9th. I'm not going to mention my age (because of my policy plus the additional fact that it makes me feel old.)._

_Anyway, each chapter in this fic is going to be one moment a month. Enjoy the antics!_

**An Opportune Time for A Birthday**

_July 23, 2001_

The heat of the summer is almost unbearable. It beats down on me, it tortures me, it decides to piss me off. Why can't we be like New York City and have snow? Or better yet, pull a Greenland and have it snow all year round? It'd have to be better than sitting inside my office and sweating like a freaking pig.

Well, plenty of people already see me as a freaking pig, but really, that's beside the point.

I really, really miss New York's weather. I really, really don't miss New York's people. They're almost as cold as managers from Division and District (here's looking at you, Ryan Chappelle). I'm pissed that I'm stuck in this hell hole and not working some high-end government job like the one that Senator Palmer says I'm going to get if (I mean when) he becomes President.

I guess it's the perfect time to check in on my favorite couple that doesn't actually exist yet. (God, for such geniuses, those two are really a pair of complete morons.) My video hard drive has been slowly but surely gaining an archive of moments between the two that really show how much they care about each other. Or how much they want to jump each other's bones.

My phone rings again, and anger starts to bubble up as I'm once again forced to abandon my charity project.

"Mason," I grunt into the damned phone.

"George, everyone on the floor is being ridiculous."

"Whatever do you mean, Tony?"

"It's not funny," he groans. "Everyone is screwing up in the middle of an operation. It's not fair. Why did we hire these people if they're so incompetent?"

"Calm down and suck it up, would you?" I drawl.

I can feel his glare from across the floor as he looks up at my transparent office. "You're damn lucky you're the director and not a Level 3 analyst," he hisses, "or I'd fire your ass."

"You're right. I'm damn lucky I'm not a Level 3 analyst because I suck at this decryption crap that you seem to actually be able to understand. I'd have my ass fired anyway."

I'm responded to by the lovely, friendly, professional sound of a dial tone. Ah, so is life. I really don't know what's eating him so much; I'm like this all the time, and he's like this all the time, so things really shouldn't be any different. And yet, they certainly feel that way.

Kara calls in at that moment. "Mr. Mason, Ms. Dessler is on the line. She just arrived from her field training seminar at Division."

"Patch her through, Ms. Brown," I say nonchalantly.

After a little bit of rustling, I hear an alto voice come on the line. "Mr. Mason, it's me. Just got back from the field ops seminar."

"All normal. How was it?"

"Well, Division people were acting as normal…"

"…Meaning like complete asses?" I interject.

From where she stands in CTU, she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. "It was actually fun, though," she says with a smile. "You never forget the feeling of a cool gun in your hand, knowing you can protect yourself, knowing what kind of power it holds."

"Glad you enjoyed it," I say.

"There is one problem, though," she says, unsure.

"What's going on?"

"Something's up with Tony," she replies. "What is it?"

"I thought you could tell me," I groan. "He's been even more standoffish than usual."

"He's not…" She starts an argument, then stops before she starts sounding too defensive.

"He's not what? Not defensive?" I smirk. "Michelle, it makes me wonder how good his bedside manner is if this isn't defensive."

Instead of laughing and retorting back, as she's learned to do over the past month and a half of being in my presence, she shrinks a little into herself. And that's when it hits me – I've struck a nerve.

Which makes what I'm doing that much more amazing. I could jump up and down from being so powerful with their emotions.

"Don't joke like that, George," she says, managing to recompose herself. "It's not funny. I'm sure that whatever Tony's angry about, there's a perfectly reasonable explanation behind it."

I try to stifle a laugh. "Okay, then," I say. "Have fun calming him down. I sure as hell am not going to be the one to do it."

"I'll call you if I have anything on this op," she says smoothly.

"Fine."

_Click._

Two hours later, I'm very, very bored. Time to send in the A team.

Well, more like the B- team. Milo's starting to work his way up here, but he's not doing that great. Yet. This clandestine operation may make or break the way he gets promoted. Sure, it's unfair, but the reason he's doing this is for my own personal amusement. Despite the fact that Tony and Michelle are going to get something good out of this, let's not forget the fact that _this is all about me_ and what I want and what entertains me.

I call the teenage-like analyst (the kid has to get rid of that piercing before I rip it out myself), and he picks it up on the fifth ring.

"Milo, you need to pick up when I call you."

I can see him as he groans inwardly. "Who do you want me to do surveillance on now?" he asks flatly.

"Tony Almeida's workstation."

"Audio or visual?"

"Both."

The sound of typing flows over the phone line, and then I hear a computerized music note. "Done," Milo says. "You should be getting the feed…now."

Suddenly, my screen comes alight with the beautiful picture of a very pissed analyst. I'm entertained (and only slightly appalled) as Tony mutters various Spanish obscenities under his breath.

"I have to deal with all of this shit on today of all days," he groans. "So, so fucked up."

What's so special about today anyway?

Suddenly a familiar petite brunette knocks on the cubicle. "Tony?"

"Come in, Michelle," he says, trying to act professional since it's his true love walking through that opening.

As the grated door slams shut, she places steaming coffee before him in his signature Cubs mug.

"I brought coffee," she says, awkwardly and a little unnecessarily.

"Thanks," he says huskily, "but, uh, what for?"

She pauses for a second, then replies evenly, "You're having a rough day. Figured I'd grab you some black coffee, wake you up out of your mood…"

"…The way I like it," he finishes. "Thanks, Michelle. Look, I'm sorry I've…"

"…been acting like a jerk?" she smiles. "Tony, it's not a problem. Really."

"Ya sure?" He asks.

"Yeah," she says sweetly as the two stare into each other's eyes and I nearly jump up and down like a fangirl.

"I'll get that list," she says apologetically after a moment, and places a hand on his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Tony," she says softly. "30's nothing to be pissed over."

A pause of uncertainty passes. "Thanks, Michelle," he replies.

"No problem, Tony," she says as she walks out. "No problem whatsoever."

_A/N: The review button beckons. So what do you think? Any suggestions. It's my birthday; humor me a little!_


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